


The Small Things

by HeartlessAngel



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartlessAngel/pseuds/HeartlessAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post DA2. Fenris and Hawke travel through Ferelden to get to the newly built Lothering for temporary refuge and Fenris wonders how Hawke keeps his spirits up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Small Things

* * *

Kirkwall was long behind them. Fenris had never made home of a place. Kirkwall was no different. Home was wherever Hawke was, though travelling long distances again would take some getting used to. 

    The roads of Ferelden were gravel, nothing like the soft sand of the Wounded Coast or the paved roads of Kirkwall. Fenris refused to use shoes despite Hawke pleading with him.

    "I ran from Tevinter to the Free Marches and the Deep Roads. I think I can handle Ferelden," Fenris insisted. But Ferelden was not kind to his feet. Though fugitives, they remained on the main roads most of the time. People with broken carriages was an all too common sight due to the state of the roads. Had Fenris not intervened and reminded Hawke that the Chantry had a bounty on his head, Hawke would have stopped for each and every person in trouble to mend their carriages. The constant drizzling allowed them to hide in bland cloaks and away from nosy strangers, at least. They had yet to fight off angry templars.

    One late night at camp, hidden behind shrubbery and trees, Fenris sat by the small fire inspecting the sorry state of his feet. With the stealth of an assassin, Hawke appeared by the fire and chuckled. He said nothing to not wound Fenris’ pride. Ferelden was not kind, but Hawke was.

   At the next inn, Hawke singled out a travelling salesman from Orlais. Fenris looked from afar, amused by Hawke's suddenly thick Fereldan accent. A little back and forth later, Hawke had convinced the Orlesian salesman to join him for a round of Wicked Grace along with three of the salesman's companions. Five pints in, Hawke had them down next to naught. Playing with Isabela had taught him a thing or two about the fine arts of cheating.

    "You didn't need to do this," Fenris said once they stood outside the inn, a small bag of coin richer and a sturdy horse to their name.

    "You refuse to use shoes, Fenris. It was either this or a piggyback ride all through Thedas."

    “I didn’t know that was an option.”

    “It’s too late now. We have a horse.” Hawke smiled.

    “Yes, an Orlesian Courser. I’m sure it won’t attract any attention.”

     Hawke mounted the horse with ease and held his hand out for Fenris.

   “Lothering is less than a day away,” he said as he helped Fenris up on the majestic beast. “Varric said there would be a warm room, bed, and homemade food waiting for us.”

     “So a shed and a blanket then.”

     Hawke laughed.

   The weather cleared along with the dense forest. Large, lush fields lay ahead, grass greener than envy. Fenris could make out the silhouette of creatures on the vast fields, but could not tell what they were. Horses, surely, but nothing like the horses he had ever seen.

    A bellowing sound had Fenris sit up straight, straining his hearing to identify the noise. Another eerie bellow and no reaction from Hawke.

    “Did you hear that?”

    “Yes, it’s from the field.” Hawke yawned.

    “Do you think it’s a demon? This place was littered with Darkspawn a few years ago, wasn’t it?”

    “What, that sound? The ‘moooo’ sound?”

    “It sounded more guttural.” Fenris frowned and looked ahead.

    There it was a again.

    “Did you hear it now?”

  “Fenris, those are cows.” Hawke paused and chuckled softly. “You have seen cows before, right? Big, snuggly, horse-dogs who produce milk?”

    Fenris huffed in disgust. Milk had only been for those who could afford it. He had no memory of drinking milk as a child, let alone as a slave. Hawke drank it like water. Claimed that his consumption of milk lay behind his extraordinary physique. Fenris could scarce stand the taste of it and could only recall faintly paying attention to cows in one of Hawke’s encyclopaedias.

    Hawke laughed again, his lips against the nape of Fenris’ neck. The vibrations of it against his skin and the sound of it so near his ear had Fenris close his eyes briefly. His heart fluttered. With everything Hawke had lost, his laughter still rang with joy.

    “How do you manage that?” Fenris asked.

    “Manage what?”

    “Keep your spirits up.”

    “I focus on the small things, Fenris.”

    “Such as?”

    “Such as keeping your feet warm and out of harm’s way and tricking rich merchants out of their socks. You should try it some time.” Hawke rubbed his beard  against the base of Fenris’ ear and got a giggle out of him.

    “I call dibs on the next rich merchant we meet then,” said Fenris, eyes ahead. It was time to get a look at these ‘cows’.


End file.
